To Be Frank
by Tedd.E.Bare
Summary: Rollo's betrothed is a spitfire, carrying the marks on her face for a week, marks she got for her behaviour towards her father. Wedded bliss seems a bit far fetched when his wife-to-be cannot stand him, but perhaps the event their marriage will turn her ire elsewhere. Rollo/Gisla. Prequel for Kiss of Death.


To Be Frank

Okay, let me be 10000% honest and say that the title is meant as a pun, and I'm sitting on my couch having a giggle over my own hilarity. Here is the prequel to Kiss of Death, my first Viking story with Gisla/Rollo as the focus (I just really find myself drawn to their relationship…) and this is set prior to their wedding, and follows Rollo's PoV instead of Gisla's. Since I posted KoD I've rewatched all three seasons and exhausted all internet-based resources on the history of Duke Rollo, Poppi de Bayeux and the questionable existence of Princess Gisela in real life. I also started this story BEFORE the sneak-peek trailer came out and I have to admit that [VERLY LIKELY SPOILERS] I'm SO GLAD Gisla's wearing a white night dress as she takes a knife to Rollo. I was so glad that at least one minor detail in the fic I had written is canon. I have my own thoughts on the details in the trailer, but I'll save that for tumblr.

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His betrothed is a complete spitfire. The day after he accepted her father's offer the princess is tearing about the castle, openly glaring at him every time they crossed paths. He cannot help but grin at her in response. He cannot understand the words she fires at him, at her father, but her tone belies that she is furious with them all, that she protests the forthcoming marriage in the only way she can. With the aid of their trusted Wanderer, the finer details are hammered out, the fact that the Saxons had baptised him when they first made their treaties the first time they raided had made the official religious difference issue go away. The Frankish clergy accepting his former baptism as a conversion to Christianity, despite him making zero attempts to change his behaviour.

His warriors camp outside the city gates, a select few trusted to stay with him inside the castle, to explore this haven of tradition and ageless pomp and ceremony. It is clear to him that the Franks are an old people, whose traditions date back to beyond the great-great grandfathers. He observes their architecture, their strong walls that cannot be broken. He ends up wandering to the same battlement where his intended first caught his eye. She is a marvel, a young woman whose words spit out like snake venom, but she is tiny, and her rage would be comical if it weren't for the translation Sinric the Wanderer gives Rollo hours afterward. Her fury is only outmatched by her father's, and the entire court witnesses the Emperor strike her about the face after she turned her anger towards him.

Rollo did not treat Siggy well when she was his; it is something that weighs on his mind, usually at night when his bed is warmed only with his own heat. He never had her heart, just as she never had his, they were lovers in body only and now that she is gone to Valhalla, he wishes he had invested more of himself into the relationship they had. He was neglectful to her, and she suffered because of it. She had lost everything, her precious sons to murderers and her daughter to the fevers, her husband to Ragnar and her own home to the Lothbrok family. Her endurance showed him the strength of the Viking women, Siggy was truly something to be treasured, and he had not treasured her the way she ought to have been. He contents himself with the knowledge that in spite of their ill-fated relationship, he had never publically struck her the way the emperor struck his daughter in the throne room. Belittling a woman like that to the Vikings would only incur tenfold trouble upon oneself.

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He is to marry the princess in a week's time, and he is determined to treasure her, as much as she hates him presently. He ends up actively seeking her out during afternoons they are not training and fighting and drinking with the Franks. She is usually tucked away in the Christian chapel, silent prayers aimed at her Christ-God. He wonders whether all the Gods watch down from their halls and their heavens, pulling up the souls of their own dead, or whether they all share a common place and it's their names that have changed with each of the tongues. Either way, the fates of this Christian princess and he, a "pagan" are entwined, soon to be with marriage that not even the Gods in all their high places are allowed to tear asunder.

One afternoon, half a week before their vows, he finds himself watching her from the entrance to the chapel, her head bowed as she kneels at the altar. Rollo thinks back to the priest Athelstan and his knowledge of where the treasures are hidden by the clergy. Under the altar, the bones of the martyrs and the treasures and gold bestowed upon them in death. He wonders who has been buried under this alter, and where Ragnar had buried the priest after his death. He stands, contemplating, until he notices her moving, bowing and crossing herself before turning to the doorway. She notices him immediately, how could she not when he blocked the doorway as he leant on the ornate frame? She freezes and Rollo tries hard to not grin, or compare her to a deer once it's caught the scent of a predator. The princess carries a stark handprint on her face; the Emperor's hand having swung at her with so much force it has bruised her eye. He offers her his arm, and she takes it with great hesitancy. It's nearing time for the midday meal and they're expected to be in the food hall.

The old Emperor had reportedly removed all the Princess' maids from her service, and she had been required to eat with her fingers, eating implements too have been stripped from her privilege. Still, her face is set in a determined grimace, and she manages to use a heel of bread to swipe her soup into her mouth. Though Rollo's eyes keep seeking her out, the Emperor barely spares a glance at her and she keeps her eyes firmly on her bowl. She is still in her seat, back straight and her face clear of emotion, except for the muscle twitching in her jaw. Her hands are flat on either side of the bowl, trying to summon the courage to lift the hot bowl with her fingers, to betray all ladylike courtesies that had been drilled into her. Eventually Rollo tosses her a spare spoon across the table, from the setting to his left; it clatters on the dark wood, and her eyes rise in surprise to meet his gaze. She takes it was a nod of thanks, and finishes her meal with some dignity restored.

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The leader of the Frankish army is a stout, one-handed man whose oiled hair swings in his eyes as he moves. A decent strategist and a man who appreciates brute force in the face of an army, he appears to be placating the people and the North men as they get used to each other's relatively peaceful proximity. Rollo does not trust the man, especially as his eyes linger on the staunch figure of the princess in her chair to the right of the Emperor. For now they are all on the same side, dining at the same tables and sharing drink and food, almost as though his people had not been raiding the city a mere month ago. Part of him wants to slice the Count from nose to navel for the gaze directed at his betrothed, one that is clearly unwelcome as she staunchly ignores the older man, but the more reasonable part recognises that to commit a murder and to murder the Count would be detrimental to his plan.

Rollo thinks back to the Christians at Wessex, the prince who bothered to learn a few phrases of the Northern tongue in order to communicate his attempt at camaraderie. Though firmly rebuffed by Floki, Prince Aethlewulf's words stuck with Rollo, " _no more enemies, but friends. My mind is different, but we fight together, and we win_." It was a clear victory for the North men when they allied themselves with the men of Wessex and Northumbria to gain the land of Mercia. Their haul was multiplied when they received their vast settlement in Wessex, and the golden gifts they were able to take home. Their alliance with the Saxon people was supposed to be nothing but beneficial for both sides, if only the Saxons had not gone back on their word and slaughtered the farmers in the settlement.

In hindsight, Rollo should have realised the Saxon men would never keep their word, the Princess of Mercia having killed her own brother to stake her claim as sole ruler should have been the first sign. Floki's words about a poisoned chalice and Christendom were not so far-fetched as he had first thought, his taste for wine had been dulled after that evening of treachery. They had lost so many good men in their battles for the insane princess. Torstein was one such loss that led Rollo to dedicate himself to his fighting in Frankia, so that he too might enter Valhalla and be reunited with his friends.

We fight together, we win. Strategy had always been a talent of Rollo's, and allying himself and his warriors to the Franks was the best strategy for surviving the winter. Had the Emperor not come forward with an emissary when he did, Rollo would have sent one of his own, though he would not likely have gained the wife he would be getting now.

The Frankish people are more honourable than the Saxons, and they make no traitorous attempts to poison the Northerners, even as it's clear to see on the nobles' faces that they wish they could do something to rid themselves of the Pagans. His intended has the fiercest glare out of the lot and Rollo imagines that if she had the power of the Gods that she would have set him on fire with her eyes alone. He thinks of his nephew, Bjorn and his wife Thorunn, who never hesitated to give him a verbal lashing when Bjorn overstepped the mark, the princess has a similar spirit, and Rollo thinks she would have made a legendary Shield Maiden had she been born Viking.

His thoughts turn towards his people, even now likely to be home in Kattegat, storing the last of their crops for winter, huddling over fires as the first snows fall and the night winds turn icy. The end of summer in Frankia is warmer, with the fields across the Seine still being used for crops, though nearly ready for the last harvest. Sinric, the Wanderer, manages to facilitate the teaching of the Frankish tongue to the Northerners. Rollo picks it up quickly, rationalising that as Duke he will be required to collaborate with the Emperor on important matters, even if the Viking return next summer will test him in terms of allegiances.

He thinks back to the past, his failed alliances with Jarl Borg, and knows that come summer, fighting against Ragnar and the rest of their people is not a thing Rollo wants to invoke, especially considering the eagle that Jarl Borg claimed he was, and the eagle that he ultimately became. His alliance to the Frankish Emperor will provide him with a wife who happens to be the sole heir to the southern kingdom of Frankia, but what happens should he wish to return to Kattegat, or should the Emperor's rule of Frankia come to an end in the next raiding season? There is nothing for Rollo in Kattegat, but the love of his brother's children, and a lifetime of memories he'd rather stay in the past, so to return would not be a welcome option, he had said his farewells to the land of his forefathers before leaving for Frankia, fully expecting to die in battle, to be reunited with whomever wished to rejoice with him in the Hall of the Gods.

To rule Frankia would be welcome, to have authority over the people they defeated, to be able to welcome his brother into their fine halls and to finally be his equal in name and rank and title. An image comes to him, unbidden, of him ruling the Frankish people, his spitfire of a wife by his side, heavy with his child, as the North men return in the coming summer, led by his brother, or his nephew. The thought of Princess Gisla by his side, ruling with him, bearing his children wipes away all former thoughts of Lagertha, of Siggy, of any woman he had ever lain with that he once entertained those thoughts of family with.

0-0-0-0

Their wedding is rung in with a pealing of bells, loud, sombre and dulcet tones that ring through the whole city. He waits in the chapel, flanked by his closest warriors, waiting for the Emperor to bring him his veiled bride. They do not wait long, there is a cacophony of voices of the Emperor enters, fully bedecked in his royal regalia, his hand tightly holding onto the reluctant princess as the monks sing in their harmonies. It is clear that the guards standing behind the two royals were not there only for their protection, but also as a preventative measure, to make sure the Princess got to her wedding.

Their vows are simple, tersely repeated after the newly appointed Bishop says for them; a band of gold is pressed into his palm to place on the finger of his bride, her hands are cold, clammy, but she lets him put the ring on her. He can barely make out her features behind the heavy lace, and knows he cannot lift the fabric from her until the Christ-God's priest has finished and they leave the sanctimonious hall to enter the feast held in their honour. The Bishop's final piece echoes out in the room before the small bald men on the side begin to sing their hymns and the congregation stands. This is their cue to leave, and they turn from the alter and towards the door, hand in hand, now joined in a way that none of their gods could make illegitimate.

The two of them are required to stay in a side room, to allow all the guests to enter the dining hall first, in order to welcome the newlyweds to the feast. It's in this time that Rollo gently pulls back the lace covering his wife's face. His wife. He's never been able to say that before. She's got tear tracks down her cheeks and looks entirely miserable; red-rimmed eyes and a trembling chin. He swipes away the tears gently and presses a small kiss to her forehead as he straightens the lace so it flows down the length of her gown. Were they anyone else, anywhere else in the world, she might not have been so upset, and he would have kissed her soundly, taking what he could of her in the short time in that small side room, but they are not, and so he contents himself with pulling her close into an embrace. Tentatively, he feels her arms rising until her hands rest on his ribs; he can feel her swallow heavily as she lets herself relax minutely in his hold.

The Emperor had made a show of providing the Princess with her maids the previous night and her hair is freshly washed, soft and curled, even its arrangement. They stay standing, awkwardly hugging until they hear the men and women in the hall, the Northerners banging their cups in the traditional way of inviting in the newlyweds. Before they do enter, Rollo wipes away the last of her tears before dropping a quick kiss to her unbruised cheek.

The revelry goes on for hours, until the sun has given way to nightfall and the North men are so drunk, it matters not to them that they receive many looks of disdain from the Franks. Rollo has abstained from drinking too much, hyper aware that his new father in law sets the example of the Frankish people; he's a quiet man, thoughtful, not a man of combat, yet clearly a powerful man if his family's history is any indication. Sinric has filled him in on their history, bits and pieces he's learnt from his travels; the Emperor's grandfather was a man named Charlemagne and the Emperor has two unhelpful brothers, ruling the lands further east and north, brothers who did not spare a single man to aid their eldest brother with defeating the Viking invasion. Rollo decides the Emperor is a man loved by his people, but hated by his family. He can empathise with the man's plight, though sees him as a coward in the way he deals with his child.

Judging by the way his new wife stares daggers and grimaces at her father when he calls a toast to the new couple Rollo thinks there's another family member for Emperor Charles to add to his list. After several toasts the atmosphere changes and there's a shift in the room's energy. Gisla is drawn by her hand maidens to leave the room, passing the huge throng of people between them and the main door. Hearty cheers and cups are raised as she passes; her back stiff as she walks away from the head table. Sinric is in his ear, telling him that the groom partakes in one final drink before catching up to his bride in their chamber. The best wine has been saved til last; the spicy hot red wine is passed to all the men, even those who indulged heavily already, even the Emperor accepts a glass.

When he finally gets to his feet, the remaining men cheer and pound the table and stomp their feet. With the wedding night coming to a close, their alliance is sealed, that bond forged and cooled. His little princess awaits upstairs, the stairwells lit with wax candles to guide his way. As he makes to leave his men crowd around him, egging him on, making ribald jokes about his prowess. Sinric sides up to him once more, urgent this time, but just as informative. " _She must bleed, and she must bleed on her gown and sheets for the marriage to be considered consummated_." Is Sinric's hurried instructions, Rollo's confusion must show, because he continues as they near the doorway, " _it is to do with their Christ-God, the blood of a virgin woman must be shed on her white linens to prove she was innocent before her marriage. It's brought to their priests in the morning as proof-_ "

That's all the time Sinric gets to share his words of wisdom before the hall doors close behind him, and Rollo is left to follow the trail of waxy white candles up the stairs to the wedding chamber. The room is lit in a warm glow, and the hand maidens step aside when he enters, revealing his wife, dressed now in new, white night shift, the bed behind her with fresh clean linens. Her elaborate hairstyle is now loose, the lace veil in the hands of one of the maids. He nods to the women, who take it as their cue to leave, each bowing to their princess in turn, kissing her hand before crossing themselves and leaving the room.

He can hear her every breath after the door clicks quietly closed behind him. It is fast, shallow, a clear sign of nervousness. Rollo reminds himself that the Franks, the Christians do not see coupling the way they North men do. Back in Kattegat a man and a woman could share whatever they wanted with each other, provided they were both willing, and both were considered to have left their childhood behind. Rollo had many women share and warm his bed, but his new little wife won't have anything but stories, wives tales, messages from the Christ-God's book and advice from the maids to tide her over until she discovers how it works for herself.

Even from the distance he stands, he can see her jaw working, her chin trembling, but the tears welling in her eyes do not fall, his little wife too proud to let such a thing betray her. There are a handful of candles behind her, illuminating her skinny silhouette beneath the opaque gown, and he can see every curve of her body as he looks her up and down. She does not move when he steps carefully towards her, slowly, like the way one would approach a spooked horse. Her skin is warm, but still gooseflesh dimples her bare arms when he rests his hands on them. She meets his eyes with her own, her face set, determined to bear whatever it is that they do.

The Christians approach physical intimacy in such a foreign way to Rollo, forever hemming and hawing about their purity and hiding the women under layers of clothing and tradition and abstinence from the intimacy that their bodies are made for, that they forget how the generations continue. How the earth rises again at the end of each winter to spring forth new life, how the babes that are washed in the Christian faith to cleanse their souls came to be in the first place. Gisla will discover the joy of married life, Rollo vows to himself; she will one day be able to share the joy of love with him. He approaches it slowly, remembering his first time as a nervous, sweaty young man, barely out of boyhood, out in the forest with a girl he liked to fight against in training. She died in a raid when they were all younger, a lethal blow to the back, she hadn't paid attention to the enemy's left, only defending blows from the right, something which Rollo had tried to drill into her for many months prior.

Rollo shakes the age-old image away and returns his attention to his nervous, new wife, her dark eyes regarding him seriously. He lets his arms drop to his sides, and then lifts his tunic above his head, baring his scarred torso to his bride as he twists off his boots. He's got a chest full of scars, a lifetime worth of fighting behind them and too many stories about that fighting to tell. She swallows visibly and he lets her look at his body in the candlelight, she's still nervous, expecting him to pounce like a cat on a mouse. Instead he holds out his hand to her from where he stands, just a step or two away. He has decided that she needs to accept him now, for all the pomp and ceremony earlier, for all the days she spent vocally denouncing the nuptials in a tongue he cannot speak nor understand, she gets to make the decision whether they start their marriage on a good standing or not.

Eventually, after a long wait, she takes his hand.

He starts off with a kiss; long, slow, and deep. Exploring her mouth with his as he starts to let his hands explore the rest of her. He's constantly reminding himself to slow down, that she won't have ever done this act before and for the women it's supposedly never comfortable the first few times. Eventually he can't help himself, cannot be content with the kisses she is finally accepting and reciprocating. He turns them around so he's treading backwards, towards the bed, still holding her close, his lips still claiming hers. Then he's pulling her shift up until he can touch bare skin, pull her bare hips closer to his own, he's untying the laces holding his pants with a free hand, pushing them lower so he can fully feel his wife, skin to skin.

She gasps and stills when his hands sneak under her thighs, one leg pulled up in one hand, the other reaching further inwards. She's trembling, nervous again, but Rollo lets his head drop to hers and recaptures her lips as he picks up the pace, swivelling around to lay her down on the soft mattress. He cannot stop now, the taste he has had of her only awakens the want, the need, for more of her. She lets out a squeak when he enters her, fingers that were previously coasting his neck now dig their nails into his shoulders, she's clearly in pain, but it's not life-threatening. He rolls into her, careful to not press all of his weight on her, letting his elbows take some of the brunt as they rest either side of her. He keeps his lips on hers as his hands explore the rest of her body, the curves that are his to enjoy. He gets into a rhythm and it's just in, out, in and out; inhale, exhale, moving of hips and lips and roaming hands. He speeds up, his mouth leaving hers and travelling to her neck, wanting to finish in her so he can make her feel the same with his hands. His eyes flicking between her face and her breasts, free from coverings as he lifts the shift up to her shoulders. Then he's groaning and can feel himself emptying into her, trying to not crush her when he falls onto one elbow.

She gasps again when he repositions himself, uses his hands on her, the new way he's learning her body, but when she starts gasping and moving in a rhythm with him, he knows he stands a chance to make things work between them.

0-0-0-0

When morning comes, he is curled around her, the room somewhat chilled as the fire had died out a few hours prior to sunrise. She looks tiny where she sleeps curled up at his chest, almost delicate. He is in no hurry to wake, to start their day and so tucks himself back into his bride's side. They only get a half an hour respite before there's a cautious knock on their door and a maid brings in a platter of breakfast foods, after a bow announces in both Frankish and stumbling Northern tongues that she will return in a few moments to take her mistresses clothing to the Bishop. She bows out and closes the door behind her.

It's then that Sinric's last words from the night come to him; the linen and the shift are taken away and checked for the blood that is expected to stain them, the one last Christian ceremony to make the marriage complete. Only cause for concern is, he's not entirely sure his bride did bleed. These Christians have such a notion of purity that even the lack of blood on a wedding night is considered treasonous and that the woman had whored herself out to others. Rollo is sure his wife was a virgin, and matters not to him if she didn't bleed, but it matters to the Frankish people that their princess' good name is not besmirched on the day after her wedding by a scandal. The Christian clergy, waiting for the evidence in their chapel will need proof, tangible and obvious evidence of her having bled, and he's got less than a minute to ensure that it's there.

Rollo twists away from Gisla, there's the tiniest smudge of red on the bed linen underneath them, barely noticeable, and nothing on her gown, how could there be if Rollo had pulled it all the way up to her neck? The Princess is awake, having twitched into wakefulness, almost violently, when the door opened. Her shift is still tucked up around her shoulders, leaving the rest of her bare. He pushes Gisla onto her stomach, ignoring the shape of her, and pulls down her gown. Her alarm is obvious and it only increases when he jumps up and reaches for a knife on the mantle above the fireplace and brings it back to their warm bed. She's shying away from him and the blade, and he supposes he should make his intentions clearer. He points to the tiny blood stain on the linen, and then to the unstained back of her shift.

Her eyes widen in understanding, but still she eyes the blade warily from where she lies on her stomach, unmoving. They've only got moments before the maid comes back so Rollo takes the initiative and presses the knife to the side of his palm, a superficial cut that will heal easily, but will bleed quickly enough to mark her gown. The blood pools on his skin and he smears it gently on the white fabric covering her rear, watching as it soaks in. he meets her eyes, her face scrunched as she realises what he had done. He then tosses the blade toward the mantle, letting it fall with a clatter and presses his cut to the fabric of the leg of his pants as the maid bustles back into the room.

They rise from the bed to dress, Rollo hiding his wounded hand and Gisla clutching the sides of her gown. The maid bustles in behind them and all but rips the sheet from the bed and folds the fabric so the tiny, iron brown stain is on the top layer, easily visible for searching eyes. He pulls on his pants and laces up the front, the thin form of his wife managing to hide the maid from view. He doesn't bother with a shirt, instead pulling his new wife by the hand to the small table where their breakfast awaits. She gets only a couple of mouthfuls into her bowl of porridge before the maid bids her to rise and come to be washed and changed.

The maid converses quietly with his wife as she washes her down with a cloth, wiping away the sweat stains, and checking to see she isn't injured below. The gown folded strategically so the smear of Rollo's blood is on top, the shift then put on top of the bed sheet as the maid dresses his wife in a soft purple and grey gown. Rollo watches with a small amount of interest, watching the way the dress is buckled and tied. It's constricting, the cut of the fabric means she can't take long strides without lifting her skirts up to her knees, a move that would probably be scandalous to the Frankish court.

The maid eventually leaves, her charge clothed and the blood-stained fabrics gathered in her arms. All the while Rollo finished his breakfast and waits for his wife to join him. He lets her eat in peace, just quietly observing her from his seat. Her dark hair is loose this morning, falling about her shoulders and down her back in soft curls. After she's finished, she stands, intent on doing something, but Rollo stands with her and traps her between the table and his body, his arms resting on the table either side of her.

She is warm, soft and Rollo cannot help but be drawn closer to her, closer to her soft lips and her warm body. Pulling her close, he drops his mouth to hers and kisses her soundly. She takes a few moments to reciprocate, but soon they're kissing intently, and whilst her hands do not stray from their positions on his broad shoulders, his are roaming all over her. It doesn't take long for him to start pressing into her, pushing her hips back into the table with his own, rutting into her. She doesn't resist when he lifts her onto the table, nor when he lifts her dress up to reach her skin. Their lips still joined, she does little more than exhale a little harshly when he enters her, pushing her back onto the table, narrowly avoiding the last remnants of their offered breakfast. Her arms extend to encircle his neck as he leans over her, her knees in the grip of his hands. He rolls into her, careful to keep his full weight off her as they move together. They end up both being hot, sticky and sweaty by the time Rollo finishes in her, and judging by the way she moves with him, she isn't far behind. He uses his fingers again until she is shuddering underneath him, breathless and restless. Her finish is quiet, her breathy moan by his ear as he rubs her, his manhood still inside her, feeling her pulse around him, faster and faster until it's a blur of movement, and she stills underneath him, pushing out a last pulse before she collapses back onto the table with a groan, her hands still around his neck.

He studies her face as they lay there awkwardly on the bench, half-enjoying the quiet afterglow, half too-tired to move. They're still mostly naked, covered in sweat and joined in their nether regions, but he does not move off her. Instead he studies the arch of her brows, to the tip of her nose, the swells of her lips and the slope of her cheeks. The bruising on her eye is all but gone, but there is still a rim of sickly yellow on her eyelid, and a vein of blood in her eye still reddens the white like a sprawling tiny network.

There's a sudden and urgent knock on the door, a voice speaking the Frank tongue comes from the other side, but Rollo doesn't yet understand them, but his wife replies in kind and makes to move away from him. Sinric's voice follows, telling him that the court has assembled, and awaits their arrival for the final marriage blessing. Rollo pulls Gisla back to him, trapping her again in his arms before she can sit up and escape. He kisses all the parts of her face he had been admiring, her brow, both cheeks, her nose, lips, chin and a final sucking kiss on her neck, right by her ear.

Pulling his trousers up, and his shirt on, he straightens up, and tries to ignore the form of his wife as she sweeps off her sweaty dress and into a clean gown, trying to pat down her wild tresses that he'd ruffled up in the time he spent kissing her. Slipping his feet into leather boots and tucking her arm into his, they're ready to face the crowd that awaits them.

0-0-0-0

Apparently the smear of blood wiped on the back of his bride's night shift was enough to satisfy the Christian clerics, even if his hand throbs slightly under a fabric bandage. It's the white stained gown on top of the sheet that the bishop holds at the front of the room as they enter, the bald monks once more singing their dulcet hymns.

The two of them are the last to enter, the Emperor seated on his throne to the side, the chair to his right, Gisla's rightful spot, has been removed and the old man sits alone on his pedestal. The order of the day is to defer to the bishop, so after a quick bow to the Emperor, both he and Gisla turn their focus to the robed man holding the blood-stained cloths. They stand virtually in the same spot they were wed, on bended knee, her hand in his. Both items are laid out, side-by-side on the altar, under a heavy ornate cross, next to an open, embossed Bible with a bright blue velvet bookmark in the spine. Prayers and Holy water are delivered and sprinkled and it's not until the Bishop has said a final prayer that the clerics line up, in order of position.

One by one each of members of the clergy, from the Bishop to the lowliest deacons and acolytes, stand before the bloodied items and after crossing themselves, declare that both items are stained with the blood of a virgin and that the marriage is consummate. It feels like it takes forever, and Rollo hates to be on his knees, but he stays where he is until they're all done with their ceremony. When the last deacon is done, they're allowed to rise and move away, to be congratulated by the gathered crowd of nobles.

The Emperor is the last one they turn to, the old man hasn't left his spot on his throne throughout and avoids the gaze of his daughter as he addresses them both, Sinric translates in his ear quietly that the Emperor is glad to welcome them both to the royal court as husband and wife and that Rollo especially from his Northern people being welcomed into the fold. Rollo chances a quick glance at his wife, surprised to see a glare on his wife's face, clearly displeased with her father as he speaks to them. Their hands are still joined, and ever so gently he squeezes her hand to distract her from directing her full ire at her king.

The two of them are officially provided with their new titles, Duke and Duchess, his wife having never been in line for the throne due to her sex; the title will pass to her eldest male cousin, or should her father marry and his Empress bear a son, a younger brother. They are then officially gifted their lands to the north, under the proviso that the Northerners return to Paris in the spring to defend the Franks from their own Northern kith and kin. The old man smiles at them both, but cannot meet the eye of his daughter again, for her glare remains. Rollo's hand squeeze had done nothing to divert her attentions.

They are notified that they will all set off for their land in a week and a half's time, enough time to pack up the Northern settlement on the banks, and enough time to gather the supplies they'll need for their journey and to help set up the stronghold that will be their new home. The old man offers a small handful of guides and a small party of his soldiers to accompany them to ensure they arrive in safety. The Emperor then quickly retires to the chapel, citing the need for prayer and reflection in solitude, leaving the rest of the party to disperse on their own. Rollo watches Gisla as she watches her father leave, a deep frown mars her pretty face, and he imagines he sees such a level of hatred growing in her eyes, like making her marry the foreigner was an unforgivable act of betrayal. He considers that it probably was to her, considering how she acted before their wedding.

She is now bound to him as much as he is to her and it makes him quietly grateful that she has turned the full force of her ire elsewhere, rather than spitting in his face like a snake. How could they start their blissful married life if she spent her days trying to actually kill him?

With her hand tucked back into the crook of his elbow they leave the hall, dipping their heads to the nobles in return for their reverent bows. The daily temperatures are starting to cool, declaring that soon there will be the winter winds and snows settling on the ground. He ends up going for a walk with her, slowly making their way to the Viking camp outside the city limits where most of their warriors still rest, waiting for their next orders. He's had to kill two of the men already, men who shouted around the camp that Rollo had betrayed them all and that he had betrayed Ragnar, their king, and worse still, he had betrayed the gods for consorting with the Franks.

The rest of the men and woman in the camp keep their opinions to themselves after that. His closest group of warriors are the ones he's told what he can, his half-baked plan that has not only gained them a valuable asset in the princess, but also a large stronghold and land for them to farm, with the agreement that they will be protected from any uprisings from the locals. That was an additional and integral part to their treaty with the Franks after he considered what happened in England. Gisla subconsciously draws closer to him when they enter the camp, almost as though she hopes to melt into his shadow so the North men cannot see her next to him. He responds by tucking her arm a little further into his own and kissing her cheek briefly before they enter the camp, bringing his wife to his people for the first time.

In truth, Rollo has no idea what will happen come spring, has not yet decided whether to keep his promise to the Emperor and go against his brother, or go back on the agreement with the old man made that got him a sweet-smelling, soft, little wife and raid Paris once again. The Seer had mocked him, telling him that the future the Gods had given him was worth any loss of dignity and pride suffered along the way. He had gone to see the Seer once more before leaving Kattegat, and was once more told of the glory and future to be found for him in Frankia, should he be willing to reach for it. With his wife on his arm, tucked close to his side as his men stand to welcome them both to the camp, he thinks he's caught the first part of his future.

End.


End file.
